We're at Amiens, where we came by way of Montdidier and Moreuil; and
nearly two weeks have dragged or slipped away since I wrote last.
Meanwhile a thousand things have happened. But I'll begin at the
beginning and write on till I am called by Mother Beckett.
We stopped at Soissons three more days after I told you about Dierdre
and Brian, and Captain Devot and his wife. Not only did they forgive
Dierdre--those two--but they took her to their hearts, perhaps more for
Brian's sake than her own. I was introduced to them, and they were kind
to me, too. Of the blind man I have a beautiful souvenir. I must tell
you about it, Padre!
The evening before we left Soissons (when the doctor had pronounced
Mother Beckett well enough for a short journey) I had an hour in the
stuffy little _salon_ with Dierdre and Brian and the Devots. We sat
round the fire--plenty of room for us all, in a close circle--and
Captain Devot began to talk about his last battle on the Chemin des
Dames. Suddenly he realized that the story was more than his wife could
bear--for it was in that battle he lost his eyes! How he realized what
she was enduring, I don't know, for she didn't speak, or even sigh, and
Brian sat between them; so he couldn't have known she was trembling. It
must have been some electric current of sympathy between the husband
and wife, I suppose--a magnetic flash to which a blind man would be more
sensitive than others. Anyhow, he suddenly stopped speaking of the
fight, and told us instead about a dream he had the night before the
battle--a dream where he saw the ladies for whom "The Ladies' Way" was
made, go riding by, along the "Chemin des Dames."
"In silks and satins the ladies went
Where the breezes sighed and the poplars bent,
Taking the air of a Sunday morn
Midst the red of poppies and gold of corn--
Flowery ladies in gold brocades,
With negro pages and serving maids,
In scarlet coach or in gilt sedan,
With brooch and buckle and flounce and fan,
Patch and powder and trailing scent,
Under the trees the ladies went,
Lovely ladies that gleamed and glowed,
As they took the air of the Ladies' Road."
That verse came from _Punch_, not from Captain Devot. I happen to
remember it because it struck my fancy when I read it, and added to the
romance of the road made for Louis XV's daughters--daughters of France,
where now so many sons of France have died for France! But the ladies of
Captain Devot's dream were like that, travelling with a gorgeous
cavalcade, and as they rode, they were listening to a song about the old
Abbey of Vauclair on the plateau of the Craonne. When they came to a
place where the poppies clustered thickest, the three princesses
insisted on stopping--Princess Adelaide, Princess Sophia, Princess
Victoire. They wished to gather the flowers to take with them to the
Château de Bove, where they were going to visit their _dame d'honneur_,
Madame de Narbonne, but their guards argued that already it was growing
late: they had better hurry on. At this the girls laughed silvery
laughter. What did time matter to them? This was _their_ road, made and
paved for their pleasure! They would not be hurried along it. No indeed;
to show that time as well as the road was theirs, to do with as they
liked, they would get down and make a chain of poppies long enough to
stretch across the whole plateau before it dipped to the valley of the
Aillette!
So, in Captain Devot's dream, the princesses descended, and they and all
their pretty ladies began weaving a chain of poppies. As they wove, the
flower-chain fell from their little white fingers and trailed along the
ground in a crimson line. The sun dropped toward the west, and thunder
began to roll: still they worked on! Their gentlemen-in-charge begged
them to start again, and at last they rose up petulantly to go; but they
had stayed too late. The storm burst. Lightning flashed; thunder roared;
rain fell in torrents; and--strange to see--the poppy petals melted, so
that the long chain of flowers turned to a liquid stream, red as a river
of blood. The princesses were frightened and began to cry. Their tears
fell into the crimson flood. Captain Devot, who seemed in his dream to
be one of the ladies' attendants, jumped from his horse to pick up the
princesses' tears, which turned into little, rattling stones as they
fell. With that, he waked. The princesses were gone--"all but
_Victoire_," he said, smiling, "she shall stay with us! The thunder was
the thunder of German guns. The poppies were there--and the blood was
there. So also were the stones that had been the princesses' tears. They
lie all along the Chemin des Dames to this day. I gathered some for my
wife, and if you like she will give a few to you, ladies--souvenirs of
the Ladies' Way!"
Of course we did like; so Dierdre and I each have a small, glistening
gray stone, with a faint splash of red upon it. I would not sell mine
for a pearl!
* * * * *
Father Beckett proposed to take his wife back to Paris; but while she
rested after the fever, industriously she built up another plan. You
remember, Padre, my telling you that the Becketts were negotiating for a
château, before they arrived in France to visit their son? When they
heard that Jim had fallen, they no longer cared to live in this château
(which was to let, furnished), nevertheless, they felt bound in honour
to stick to their bargain. Well, at Soissons, Mother Beckett had it
"borne in upon her" that Jim would wish his father and mother to stay at
the old house he had loved and coveted for himself.
"I can't go back across the sea and settle down at home while this war
goes on!" she said. "Home just wouldn't be _home_. It's too far away
from Jim. I don't mean from his _body_," she went on. "His body isn't
_Jim_, I know! I've thought that out, and made myself realize the truth
of it. But it's Jim's spirit I'm talking about, Father. I guess his
soul--Jim himself--won't care to be flitting back and forth, crossing
the ocean to visit us, while his friends are fighting in France and
Belgium, to save the world. I know my boy well enough to be sure he's
too strong to change much just because he is what some folks call
'dead'; and he'd like us to be near. Paris won't do for me. No city
would. I'd be too restless there. Do, _do_ let's go and live till the
end of the war in Jim's château! That's what he's wanting. I feel it
every minute."
I was in the room when she made this appeal to her husband, and I longed
to put into their hearts the thought Jack Curtis had put into mine. But,
of course, I dared not. It would have been cruel. Jack Curtis had
nothing to go upon except his impression--the same impression I myself
have at times, of Jim's vital presence in the midst of life. I have it
often, though never quite so strongly as that night in Paris, when he
would not let me kill myself.
It wasn't difficult to make Father Beckett consent to the new plan. He
told me afterward that his own great wish was to find Jim's grave, when
the end of the war would make search possible. Beckett interests were
being safeguarded in America. They would not suffer much from his
absence. Besides, business no longer seemed vitally important to him as
of old. Money mattered little now that Jim was gone.
He would have abandoned his visit to the British front, since Mother
Beckett could not have the glimpse half promised by the authorities. But
she would not let him give it up. "Molly" would take good care of her.
When she could move, we would all go to Amiens. There she and I could be
safely left for a few days, while Brian and Father Beckett were at the
front. As for Julian O'Farrell and Dierdre, at first it appeared as if
the little lady had left them out of her calculations. But I might have
known--knowing her--that she wouldn't do that for long.
She believed implicitly in their Red Cross mission, which, ever since
the little car joined the big one, has been constantly aided with
Beckett money and Beckett influence. Julian would, she supposed, wish to
"carry on his good work," when our trip came to an end. But as he had no
permission for the British front (he hadn't cared to make himself
conspicuous to the British authorities by asking for it!) he and Dierdre
might like to keep us two women company at Amiens. By the time we wanted
to leave, Mother Beckett confidently expected "Jim's château" to be
ready for occupation, and Dierdre must visit "us" there indefinitely,
while her brother dutifully continued distributing supplies to hospitals
and refugees. ("Us," according to Mother Beckett, meant Brian and me,
Father Beckett and herself, for we now constituted the "family"!)
Telegrams had given the Paris house-letting agency _carte blanche_ for
hasty preparations at the Château d'Andelle, where several old servants
had been kept on as caretakers: and being a spoiled American
millionairess, the little lady was confident that a week would see the
house aired, warmed, staffed, and altogether habitable.
"You wouldn't object to having that poor little girl stay with us, would
you, dear?" Mother Beckett asked me, patting my hand when she had
revealed her ideas concerning the O'Farrells.
"Oh, no," I answered, looking straight into her inquiring eyes, and
trying not to change colour. "But you shouldn't speak as if I had any
right----"
"You have every right!" she cut me short. "Aren't you our daughter?"
"I love you and Father Beckett enough to be your daughter," I said. "But
that gives me no right----"
"It does. Your love for us, and ours for you. I don't believe we could
have lived through our sorrow if it hadn't been for you and Brian. He
saved our reason by showing us what Jim would want us to do for the good
of others. And he taught us what we couldn't seem to realize fully,
through religion, that death doesn't count. Now, since I've been ill, I
guess you've saved my life. And much as I want to see Jim, I want even
more to live for Father. He needs me--and we both need you and Brian.
You two belong to us, just as if you'd been given to us by Jim. We want
to do what's best for you both. I thought, for Brian, it would be good
perhaps to have Dierdre----"
"Perhaps," I murmured, when she paused.
"You're not sure? I wasn't at first. I mean, I wasn't sure she was good
enough. But since the night when she threw herself in front of him to
keep off the dog, I saw she cared. Maybe she didn't know it herself till
then. But she's known ever since. You've only to see the way she looks
at him. And she's growing more and more of a woman--Brian's influence,
and the influence of her love--such a great influence, dear! It might be
for his happiness, if----"
"I don't think Brian would marry Dierdre or any girl, unless his sight
came back," I said. "He's often told me he wouldn't marry."
"Was that before he went to Paris with the O'Farrells? Things have been
rather different since then--and a good _deal_ different since the
night we met Jack Curtis with Sirius."
"I know," I admitted. "But if Brian wanted to change his mind about
marrying, he couldn't. Neither he nor Dierdre O'Farrell have a
penny----"
"Brian's got as much as we have," the dear woman assured me.
"Do you think he'd take your money to marry on? No, dearest! Brian's
very unworldly. So far, he hasn't worried about finances for the
present. The future is different. If he doesn't get back his sight----"
"But he will--he must!" she urged. "That great specialist you saw in
Paris gave him hope. And then there's the other one that your doctor
friend recommended----."
"He's somewhere at the front. We can't get at him now."
"We'll get at him later," Mother Beckett persisted. "In the
meantime--let's give those two hearts the chance to draw together, if
it's best for them."
I could not go on objecting. One can't, for long, when that little angel
of a woman wants a thing--she who never wants anything for herself, only
for others! But I thought Fate might step between Brian and
Dierdre--Fate, in the shape of Puck. I wasn't at all sure that Julian
O'Farrell could be contented to leave his sister and continue his own
wanderings. The Red Cross taxi had in truth been only a means to an end.
I didn't fancy that his devotion to duty would carry him far from the
Château d'Andelle while Dierdre was comfortably installed in it. Unless
he were invited to _embusquer_ himself there, in our society, I
expected a crash. Which shows how little I knew my Julian!
When the plan was officially suggested to him, he agreed as if with
enthusiasm. It was only when he'd consented to Dierdre's visit at the
château on the other side of the Somme, and promised to drop in now and
then himself on his way somewhere else, that he allowed himself a second
thought. To attract attention to it, he started, ran his hand through
his hair, and stopped in the middle of a sentence. "I am heaven's own
fool!" he exclaimed.
Of course Father Beckett wanted to know why. (This was two days before
we started for Amiens.) Julian "registered reluctance." Father Beckett
persisted, and drew forth the information that Julian _might_ have to
cut short his career as a ministering Red Cross angel. "If it hadn't
been for you," he said, "my funds and my supplies would have run short
before this. You've helped me carry on. But I'm getting pretty close to
the bone again now, I'm afraid. A bit closer and I shall have to settle
down and give music lessons. That's all I'm fit for in future! And
Dierdre wouldn't want me to set up housekeeping alone. While I'm on this
Red Cross job it's all right, but----"
Of course Father Beckett broke in to say that there was no question of
not carrying on. Money should be forthcoming for supplies as long as
Julian felt inclined to drive the Red Cross taxi from one scene of
desolation and distress to another. Holidays must be frequent, and all
spent at the Château d'Andelle. Let the future decide itself!
So matters were settled--on the surface. Julian was ready to pose
before an admiring audience as the self-sacrificing hero, giving all his
time and energy to a noble cause. Only his sister and I knew that he was
the villain of the piece, and for different reasons neither of us could
explain the mistake about his rôle. He was sure of us both; impudently,
aggravatingly, yet (I can't _help_ it, Padre!) amusingly sure of me. He
tried to "isolate" me, as if I'd been a microbe while we were still at
Soissons, and again just after Father Beckett and Brian went away from
Amiens in the big gray car. There was something, something very special
that he wished to say to me, I could tell by his eyes. But I contrived
to thwart him. I never left Mother Beckett for a moment!
The first day at Amiens it was easy to keep out of his way altogether,
for I was nurse as well as friend, and my dear little invalid was worn
out after the journey from Soissons. She asked nothing better than to
stop in her room. The next day, however, exciting news acted upon her
like a tonic. The Amiens address had been wired to Paris, and in
addition to a mass of letters (mostly for Father Beckett) there was a
telegram from the Château d'Andelle, despatched by an agency messenger,
who had been sent to Normandy. All was going well. The house would be
ready on the date named. Two large boxes from the Ritz had safely
arrived by _grande vitesse_.
"Darling Jimmy's own things!" Mother Beckett explained to me. "Do you
remember my telling you we'd brought over to France the treasures out of
his den at home?"
I did remember. (Do I ever forget anything she says about Jim?)
"They were to be a surprise for him when he came to see us," his mother
went on, tears misting the blueness of her eyes. "Not furniture, you
know, but just the little things he loved best in his rooms: some he had
when he was a child, and others when he was growing up--and the picture
your brother painted. When we heard--the news--and knew we shouldn't see
our boy again in this world, I couldn't bear to open the boxes--though I
was longing to cry over his dear treasures. They've been stored at the
Ritz ever since. But the first thing I asked Father to do when we
decided the other day to live in Jim's château, after all--was to wire
for the boxes to be sent there. I didn't suppose they'd arrive so
soon--in war time. Dear me, I can hardly wait to start, now! I feel as
strong as a girl."
To prove this--or because she was restless--she begged to be taken out
in a cab to see the town, especially the cathedral, which Brian had told
her was the largest in Europe except St. Peter's in Rome, St. Sophia in
Constantinople, and something in Cologne which she didn't _want_ to
remember! Julian O'Farrell and his sister must go with us, of course. It
wouldn't be kind to leave them to do their sightseeing alone. Besides,
Julian was so good-natured, and said such funny things it would be
pleasant to have his society.
This arrangement made it difficult for me to glue myself to Mother
Beckett's side. Now and then she insisted upon getting out of the cab to
try her strength, and Dierdre would obediently have taken her in tow, in
order to hand me over to "Jule," if I hadn't been mulishly obstinate. I
quite enjoyed manoeuvring to use my dear little invalid as a sort of
standing barrage against enemy attacks, and even though Brian and I were
parted for the first time since his blindness, I felt almost absurdly
cheerful. It was so good to know that Mother Beckett was out of danger,
and that it was I who had helped to drag her out! Besides, after all the
stricken towns that have saddened our eyes, it was enlivening to be in
one (as Mother Beckett said at Compiègne) with "whole houses." In
contrast, good St. Firmin's ancient city looks almost as gay as Paris.
Our hotel with its pleasant garden and the fine shops--(where it seems
you can still buy every fascinating thing from newest jewellery and
oldest curiosities, to Amiens' special "_roc_" chocolates)--the long,
arboured boulevards, the cobbled streets, the quaint blue and pink
houses of the suburbs, and the poplar-lined walk by the Somme, all, all
have the friendliest air! Despite the crowds of soldiers in khaki and
horizon blue who fill the streets and cafés, the place seems outside
war. Even the stacked sandbags walling the west front and the side
portals of the grandest cathedral in France suggest comfortable security
rather than fear. The jackdaws and pigeons that used to be at home in
the carvings, camp contentedly among the bags, or walk in the neglected
grass where sleep the dead of long ago. I didn't want to remember just
then, or let any one else remember, that twenty miles away were the
trenches and thousands of the dead of to-day!
Never can Amiens have been such a kaleidoscope of colourful animation
since Henri II of France and Edward VI of England signed the treaty of
peace here, with trains of diplomatists and soldiers of church and state
and dignified rejoicings!
It wasn't until we were inside the cathedral that I forgot my
manoeuverings. The soft, rich light gave such a bizarre effect to the
sandbags protecting the famous choir carvings, that I was all eyes for a
moment: and during that moment Julian must have signed to his sister to
decoy Mother Beckett away from me. When I hauled my soul down from the
soaring arches as one strikes a flag, there was Puck at my side and
there were Mother Beckett and Dierdre disappearing behind
sandbag-hillocks, in the direction of the celebrated Cherub.
"I suppose you want me jolly well to understand," said Puck, smiling,
"that even if your brother Brian and my sister Dare are fools over each
other, you won't be fooled into forgiving a poor, broken-voiced
Pierrot?"
"I've nothing to forgive you for, personally," I said. "Only----"
"Only, you don't want to be friends?"
"No, I don't want to be friends," I echoed. "Why can't you be content
with being treated decently before people, instead of following me
about, trying always to bring upon yourself----"
"A lamp might ask that question of a moth."
I laughed. "You're less like a moth than any creature I ever met!"
"You don't believe I'm sincere."
"Do moths specialize in sincerity in the insect world?"
"Yes," Puck said, more gravely than usual. "Come to think of it, that's
just what they _do_. They risk their lives for the light they love. I
'follow you about,' as you put it, because I love you and want to
persuade you that we're birds of a feather, made for each other by
nature and fate and our mutual behaviour. We belong together in life."
"Do you really believe you can blackmail me into a partnership?" I
turned at bay. "You must have seen that I wanted to keep out of your
way----"
"Oh, I saw all right. _You_ thought that I thought Amiens would be my
great chance, and you made up your mind it shouldn't be if you could
help it. Well, you won't be able to help it much longer, because I've
got something you want, and you can't get it except through me."
"I doubt very much that I could want anything you have," I said.
"Give your imagination wings."
"You are always teasing me to guess things I don't care to guess!"
"Here comes Dierdre back with Mrs. Beckett so I won't worry you to
guess. I've got a message from the Wandering Jew. Do you want it, or
don't you?"